by Tinnean
“With Daemon?” Penn repeated, eyes riveted to Ehron before he turned, as did everyone else, to the consul.
“Daemon liberated me,” Ehron said softly, pulling his hand free of his mother’s grip and raking his fingers through his thick blond hair. “I know not how. One scrap I was to be killed, the next I hear his voice in the dark asking me why I was so willing to die.” Ehron took a breath and smiled ruefully. “By the gods, I remember that so clearly, and that was so many seasons ago.”
Everyone was silent, and Ehron turned quickly, rounding on Daemon, and grabbed the smaller man tight, crushing him to his chest, face buried down in his shoulder.
“My lord.” Daemon coughed dramatically, and everyone smiled. “Must we again have this mauling?”
The laughter released the last of the tension, and Ehron’s lopsided grin as he shoved Daemon away from him was wonderful to see.
Torbald reached out and put a hand on Daemon’s shoulder, squeezing tight. “You saved my son and then received this honor from the warlord. This baldric—the only honor higher is the presentation of land.”
“Which I was awarded and so granted my lord.”
Torbald’s eyes locked on Daemon. “You were given land, and you gave it to Ehron?”
“Aye,” Daemon assured the baron. “I was granted the Caraba preserve, and now it belongs to my lord Ehron. The preserve borders the lands of the warlord himself.”
“So Ehron has his own land and is the son of a baron, as well as a prefect and….”
“And so perhaps the choice between me and Akasus Jaan will be easier for Ram.” Ehron smiled at his father. “I believe that Ram will choose me to succeed him, as he knows I have men in my employ that are prepared to defend me as I defend the realm. All that Daemon has done reflects me in golden glow.”
“Aye,” Torbald agreed whole-heartedly, a feeling of excitement and certainty washing over him. He had been startled at first by Daemon’s dark and somber appearance, but now he knew that his son’s servant, his consul, was truly a blessing and was building Ehron’s reputation and power brick by brick.
Amelina suddenly grabbed Daemon’s hand, breaking the spell of awed silence everyone had fallen under.
“Father, may I please dance with Daemon before the night leaves us?”
“Of course, of course,” Torbald said quickly. “Daemon is to be rewarded for his able mind, not to have me bark questions at him all evening.”
Daemon looked up at Seone. “I will fast return to you so you do not hold a hard heart toward me.”
The glowering man smiled down at Daemon. “As if that could ever be the truth.”
Daemon was about to leave with Amelina when he remembered that he was still wearing his sword and baldric. He turned suddenly in the direction of the wall-walk. He took it off and meant to throw it up to Seone for safekeeping, but Ehron reached for it instead.
“My lord?” Daemon asked him.
“I will guard it for you,” he assured him.
Daemon handed it to his lord and then allowed Amelina to drag him after her. Torbald stepped forward and pointed at Daemon’s baldric before looking at Ehron and waiting.
Ehron sighed in defeat. “What shall I say to you, father, to give you ease?” He smiled widely, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice.
Torbald motioned for the baldric, and Ehron passed it to him. “He simply gave you the land that was given to him.”
“Aye, father. As he is not a citizen of Rieyn, he felt he had no right to it.”
“And this is what you believe?”
“No.” Ehron smiled. “I believe he gave it to me to further secure my station and for no other reason. He is as devoted to my welfare as were you and mother when I was a child. Truly, you could not have asked for me to be gifted with a better servant.”
“Indeed.” He nodded, lifting the baldric toward Ehron. “And this?”
“If you knew all the man had done, you would not believe me.”
“Perhaps not.”
Gareth watched his brother move off to follow after Amelina and Daemon.
“What concerns you, father?” he asked, interested, looking after his retreating brother before looking down at the sword and sheath in his father’s hands.
“Even mine is not this grand,” Torbald explained, tracing the ruby, sapphire, and other sparkling jewels riveted into the leather. “A jewel is given for individual service and is given only by a prefect, the shield bearer or the warlord himself.”
“The baldric is encrusted with them,” Gareth said.
“Aye, it is,” he agreed, turning the heavy baldric over to look at the jewels in the back. “All these jewels given as well as land…. Daemon’s service in the war had to be great.”
“Yet we heard not his name.”
“But we heard your brother’s,” Torbald told Gareth, “and perhaps this is how Daemon planned it. The man has a mind I envy.”
As Gareth absorbed his father’s words, one of Ehron’s soldiers stopped and bowed before the baron as he made his way back to stand guard over the manor house.
“You,” Torbald called to the man before he could walk on. “Know you this baldric?”
“Aye, my lord,” the man said quickly. “’Tis Daemon’s.”
“Was it given to him by the warlord himself?”
“The warlord was there, but ’twas the deliverer who placed it on him.”
They all knew the story. They all knew who the deliverer was: Mycah Ilen, Prefect of the Second Legion, who had delivered all men from Adaran Prison in Shokee. His name had emerged from the war greatest of all.
Torbald nodded, then smiled at the man. “Tell me, the man who Daemon had to have words with, the one who spoke out against my house, what was done with him?”
“Daemon sent him off the grounds of the keep, my lord. He must sleep outside the gates this set.”
“And if he is attacked by—”
“His fate was chosen by his actions, my lord. This is what Daemon spoke to us.”
“Thank you,” Torbald nodded, giving the man a hard clap on the shoulder. “You have my leave.”
“Daemon does not punish with his sword,” Gareth said to his father.
“No, he does not, and I find I respect that more than the spilling of blood.”
As they strolled back up toward the bonfire, they were surprised to find Amelina standing outside the circle of dancers. She was beside Daemon, her hand around his arm as they stood talking to three daughters of different maxims. As Gareth and his parents neared them, they heard Amelina’s voice in a timber that none of them had ever heard before.
“I told you no,” she told one of the girls, who immediately bowed deeply. “This should be enough for you, for he is my brother’s servant.”
“I meant no disrespect, Lady Amelina,” the girl stammered.
“By the gods, lady.” Ehron smiled, walking up behind his sister. “Will you not share my consul with this sweet and lovely creature?”
Amelina’s eyes were huge as she regarded her brother. “I wanted only my turn at the reel with Daemon.”
“But you have many dances, and this lady has only this one,” Ehron assured her, gently pushing the maxim’s daughter toward Daemon.
“Aye,” Daemon said, his voice gentle. “But it was Lady Amelina alone who came to seek me, and for that I would not leave her side,” he said, taking her hand and leading her toward the dancers.
The young girl bowed to both the baron and baroness before asking if Ehron himself would dance.
“I will,” he smiled at her, leading her to the reel.
Torbald turned to say something to his wife but was silenced when he saw that her eyes had welled up with unshed tears. “Lady?” he inquired softly. “Are you well?”
“’Tis only Daemon Shar,” she said breathlessly. “He knows so well how to care for the fledgling heart of a young girl. I just want to wrap him in my arms and speak soft thanks to him. He is a jewel of a man.”
Torbald looked at his daughter then and saw for the first time what his wife saw: Amelina’s adoring eyes, her flushed cheeks, and the telltale hands that fluttered nervously around Daemon, touching him whenever she had the chance. As they began the reel and moved first away from each other and then back together, he watched his daughter’s face light up with joy.
“I had not realized she was so taken with him,” Gareth said, reading his father’s thoughts as he stepped in beside him.
“I had not either,” Torbald assured him. “We must kill the bud before it blooms.”
“Father?” Gareth asked, turning to look at the older man. “What harm can come of such?”
“She is the daughter of a baron; she is not a chambermaid.”
“Aye,” Odessa said solemnly, “she is the daughter of a baron. She knows well her station and will take no road that would lead us to ruin. Leave her be to dance with the man. No harm will come from this.”
Torbald watched Amelina twirl in a circle before she flew back into Daemon’s arms. As the song ended, she wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. As the servant was not much taller than she, she was able to coil herself tightly around him. Torbald watched his daughter release a deep sigh of pleasure as she stood there hugging Daemon, and he wondered if his wife knew what she was talking about. Torbald would have watched Amelina and Daemon all night, but he was pulled into the dance himself by the wife of one of his most trusted maxims and could not say no.
Gareth and Penn had danced for hours with woman after woman but were standing together, resting, drinking some ale when Daemon approached them.
“My lord,” Daemon addressed Gareth. “Would you point me in the direction of the house of Belton?”
“Belton the barrel maker?” Penn asked Daemon.
“Aye,” Daemon nodded, smiling as a small face peeked out from behind him. “Belton, it seems, is the father of my dear girl.”
“Ah, Mistress Anya.” Gareth smiled down at the little girl who had one arm wrapped around Daemon’s leg. “Are you lost, lass?”
The little girl stayed mute, stepping further behind Daemon.
“It seems she is, my lord,” Daemon said softly. “Would you speak to me the way?”
“We will walk with you,” Gareth told him even as Penn’s look of annoyance became visible.
Gareth watched as the little girl stepped in front of Daemon and held up her arms for him. He reached down and swept her up into his arms, settling her against his chest as he walked. He spoke in low tones to her, asking her about animals and flowers and what the trees told her.
Gareth was surprised at the child. He himself found Daemon’s cloaked appearance fascinating, but to the little girl he must have looked like some dark specter from the grave. And yet she was not frightened in the least. He wondered at everyone’s easy acceptance of clothing and an appearance he felt should have been cause for staring, fear, and concern. He was especially astounded over the reaction of the little girl. It made no sense.
Anya had her chubby little arm wrapped around Daemon’s neck as she pointed to the houses that they passed. They stopped short at a woodpile behind the glassmaker’s house, and there was some intense discussion before they could move on. As Gareth watched, Anya reached inside the cowl, underneath. He could see her hand stroking under the heavy material, petting the side of Daemon’s face. He was gripped with an almost overwhelming urge to whip the cowl back and look in the face underneath. He at least wanted to be granted the same liberty as the child.
He was struck suddenly with the depth of his desire. Always Gareth had been enamored by the beauty and grace of other men. The need that gripped others to bed maids never rose up in the second-born son of the baron. Gareth looked at men, lusted after men, and had bedded many, in secret, over the years. None, however, had captured his absolute interest like Daemon Shar. His brother’s servant was a mystery. He moved with a feline grace that was riveting, and the way the breeches and boots hugged his muscular legs and thighs was sinful. The robe that should have been anything but sensual showed off a breadth of shoulder and slimness of waist that had Gareth’s mind reeling with possibility. The lines of the man were long, lean, and beautiful, and his rich, mellifluous voice was another problem all together.
Never in his life had Gareth heard a voice so husky and sultry, so filled with mischief, promising untold decadence and heat. Gareth wanted him badly, and from the looks of every maid that Daemon passed, other soldiers, and even a few of the maxims, he was not the only one intrigued and wanting to taste. He wondered briefly if Ehron had ever stripped his second out of all his clothes and laid him bare beneath him on silken sheets. He had asked Ehron what color Daemon’s eyes were and had been told that he did not know. It was a lie, Gareth knew, but to ask, to pry, would have revealed his desire, and the fact that he was a lover of men was not a secret he was ready to share with his brother.
When Penn spoke suddenly, pointing to a house at the end of a small path, Gareth was torn from his sinful thoughts. Daemon tipped his head at the open door, and all three men understood how the wandering had happened.
“Thank you, my lord and brother Penn,” Daemon said to both men without turning around as he walked to the door of the house and gently rapped on the doorframe.
Gareth waited and was rewarded with the sight of the relieved and happy reunion. Anya’s mother appeared at the door and rushed forward to her daughter and Daemon. She grabbed her child from the consul, and after much kissing and hugging and squeals of delight, she turned and bowed to him. Belton was there in an instant as well, and Gareth watched as Daemon’s arm was pulled, and he was led from the doorway into their home. Penn turned to go, but it was soon apparent that Gareth had no intention of moving.
It was a continual source of frustration on Penn’s part that his friend had so much interest in common, everyday events. He snatched the empty ale cup from Gareth’s hand, hoping that this would prompt some dialogue, but when it did not, he stalked away, clearly annoyed.
Gareth was mesmerized by the picture before him, a moment that, as the son of the lord of the castle, he would never experience, a quaint meeting of simple men. He stood quietly across the path from the small cottage and watched through the door as Anya’s parents marveled at her return.
Gareth looked at Anya on Daemon’s lap, chatting with everyone, and was again surprised by their easy acceptance of his forbidding appearance. He saw strangers pat his back, leave a hand to linger on his shoulder, saw a brazen young woman try and take a seat in his lap, much to Anya’s loud screech of outrage. Laughter floated from the house, but Gareth saw that even as the young woman tried to flee, embarrassed and humiliated, Daemon reached for her hand and drew her close, tracing lines on her palm and speaking soft words so that she had to lean down beside him and put her ear close to the cowl.
The man had an ease with women—and men—that Gareth envied, a knowing of their hearts that he had no hope of ever learning. He saw woman after woman gaze at his brother’s second. From sweet little Anya to her mother to Odessa’s ancient seamstress, they all melted under the honeyed voice. They all caught their breath, crowded around him, and brought him food, drink, and absolute, rapt attention. When Daemon finally excused himself, parting with Anya after a gift of a polished stone, several of the young men that had been congregating outside the cottage trailed after him.
Gareth followed at a stroll, walking just far enough behind as not to be noticed by Daemon. He was greeted by everyone he passed and noted that they all seemed a bit surprised to find that it was indeed the baron’s son walking alone through the castle grounds, so accustomed were they to finding Penn H’rah in attendance of him.
The boys talked with Daemon, bringing forth their knives for him to inspect and pass judgment on. He stopped finally and nodded, and Gareth watched as they went en masse to the middle of the inner bailey. Several of the boys had bows and arrows, and Daemon instructed them on the finer points o
f drawing the bow tight. They marveled at how fast Daemon could draw and fire. He turned and spoke, and even though Gareth couldn’t hear the words from his distance, he noted their obvious awe, saw their eyes follow Daemon’s motions with his hands, saw them jockeying for the position closest to the man, and marveled at the way they fell back into stride with Daemon when they turned to the path. They were blind to everything but the consul. Gareth could not recall a time that he had been asked for his opinion on a weapon, had been called on to demonstrate his prowess with a bow, or had been pursued with such single-mindedness. They soaked Daemon in, nearly stalking him in their desire to be near him.
Ehron’s consul was obviously held in much higher regard than the baron’s son. The reason for the regard was simple to understand: Gareth had not been to war. Boys who had only heard of battle now saw a warrior. They were drunk with the sight of him. Gareth almost felt sorry for the attention that Daemon would surely soon tire of.
He lost sight of the consul after being drawn into conversation with one of the maxims, and when he looked around, there was no sign of the man. He took the path around the outside of the keep, close to the buttery, and was suddenly shoved up against the side of the rough stone wall. He was startled, fighting for a moment before the deep, sexy voice spoke.
“Why do you hunt me, my lord?”
Gareth trembled under the gloved hand that had him pinned to the wall, looking into the darkness and finding nothing there. The grip Daemon had on him was solid and strong even though the other man was smaller, slighter.
“I….” Gareth swallowed hard. “I wanted to speak with you.”
“About what concern, my lord?”
“I….” Gareth tried to think of something to say to the consul but ended up instead simply sighing his defeat. “Any that you would speak to me of, I would hear.”
Daemon smiled under his cloak. It was an honest and painful answer. Such a confession deserved a reward.
“You… I mean not to offend you, consul, but you are a wonder to me.”